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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563752">Satisfaction</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caldefrance/pseuds/caldefrance'>caldefrance</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, Cunnilingus, Desperate Sex, Drinking, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hooking up, Loneliness, Masturbation, Pleasure Advocacy, Riding, Short Story, Shower Sex, one-night stand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:47:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563752</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caldefrance/pseuds/caldefrance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quynh had five hundred years of pent-up sexual frustration to work off and she thought that Booker would be desperate enough to help her without asking too many questions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Quynh | Noriko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Satisfaction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This work was written as a response to a prompt posted to theoldguardkinkmeme, here:<br/>https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/6403.html?thread=2290691#cmt2290691</p><p>“There is an upsetting lack of Quynh/Booker around so anything really but I’d love something that starts with the last scene in the movie and progresses from there.” </p><p>“Consensual but desperate sex on that little kitchen table, etc.”</p><p> </p><p>I've played a bit with the similarity between "greet me"/"kiss me" (<i>bise</i>) and "fuck me" (<i>baise</i>) in French to imagine a different kind of first meeting between Booker and Quynh.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Booker swore like a drunkard as he dropped his keys and then the bottle of <i>cognac</i> on the landing in front of the door to the short-term rental he’d taken in the <i>Marais</i>, a centrally-located neighbourhood on the <i>Rive Droite</i>—the right bank—of the <i>Seine</i> river that crosses Paris. This part of the <i>3e arrondissement</i> had been left untouched by the urban planning reforms of the later nineteenth century and remained as he remembered it: full of old buildings and irregular streets. He had settled here—amongst the hordes of tourists and the affluent residents—to start over from what he knew and, instead, he had taken up the same bad habits.</p><p>He was still doing a shit job of living, if he were being honest with himself. He had tried to keep the faith—hoping against hope that his family would reach out before he lived out his one-hundred-year term of banishment. As the weeks passed and turned into months without any contact from them, he increasingly felt the heavy price of his betrayal weighed on him. He grieved for Andy, his mentor and confidante, who he would never get to see again before her time ended. He missed them all, desperately.</p><p>He still felt desperately lonely and he needed something to numb that pain.</p><p>“<i>Putain de merde!</i>”</p><p>He had been looking forward to drinking that nice bottle of <i>Courvoisier</i> he’d nicked from Marcel—the man who owned and ran the bar he tended to haunt these days—after that <i>enfoiré</i> had cut him off and kicked him out at closing time.</p><p>He kicked the bottle’s green glass shards to the side. Madam Grollet—the eighteenth-century building’s equally ancient custodian—would have his ear if he didn’t pick up his mess before morning, but he was too wasted to care as he tried to break into his own flat. He fumbled with the key for a few minutes before shouldering the flat’s heavy wood door open.</p><p>He tossed his keys off to the side and headed straight for the liquor cabinet in the flat’s tiny retrofitted kitchen without even bothering to remove his shoes. He was desperate for another drink.</p><p> </p><p>Booker stopped short when he noticed that he wasn’t alone in his one-bedroom flat. A woman he’d never seen before was standing in his kitchen, leaning against his <i>plan de travail</i>, drinking water from one of his glasses.</p><p>He couldn’t for the life of him remember whether he’d invited anyone back to his flat to keep him company tonight.</p><p>“<i>Je vous demande pardon, Madame—</i>” he began, politely enough—though he fumbled with his words through the fog of alcohol that clouded his brain.</p><p>“Booker,” the woman said, in greeting, in a strangely-accented English that could never be confused for that of a <i>Parisienne</i>.</p><p>Booker couldn’t remember if he had ever used or even mentioned that name while he’d been in Paris—or, where he might have heard an accent like that before, for that matter.</p><p>“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said, taking another sip of water.</p><p>Booker gasped, in shock, when he realized who she was to him. He felt a jolt of fear rush down his spine as he realized that this woman wasn’t someone looking for a one-night stand, but to begin a relationship that couldn’t be measured in days or years.</p><p>Booker had come home to find Quynh standing in his kitchen.</p><p>He hadn’t recognized her, at first, given that he had only ever seen her when he dreamed of her—trapped in an iron maiden at the bottom of the ocean—screaming, drowning, raging against the forces that kept her from finding release in either dying or escaping. He would have sworn—if anyone had asked him—that she was still stuck in that box at the bottom of the ocean. </p><p>He couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d escaped and made her way to find him. He couldn’t even imagine what she wanted from him, now.</p><p>He could only assume, if he were hard pressed to guess, that she had come to find him for one of two things—to reconnect or to exact revenge—or both.</p><p>He couldn’t help but think, as he watched her drink that glass of water, that someone who had spent more than five hundred years dying death after death by drowning and could still drink water was someone to be reckoned with—or ravished.</p><p>He also couldn’t help but think—now that he recognized who she was to him—that it would have been so much simpler if she were only looking for a one-night stand.</p><p>“Aren’t you going to say hello?” she asked, in her heavily-accented English, before switching to an equally heavily-accented French when he didn’t give her an answer right away. “<i>Tu ne vas pas me faire la bise?</i>”</p><p> </p><p>Booker didn’t think—he couldn’t think, he’d drunk far too much earlier so he could stop feeling desperately lonely, and he still felt desperate for some kind of connection—and he moved across the narrow space of the kitchen to press a bruising kiss to her mouth.</p><p>Quynh dropped the glass she had been holding when he crowded her and it shattered against the eight-sided terracotta tiles that covered the kitchen floor, spraying water everywhere.</p><p>She broke their connection first, giving him a hard slap across the cheek that made him reel back.</p><p>“<i>Merde!</i>” Booker swore, as he slipped in the growing puddle of water, and fell against the front panel of the kitchen’s old refrigerator.</p><p>“That wasn’t very nice,” Quynh admonished him. “Is that how you greet all your friends?”</p><p>He couldn’t think of anything to say as she stepped towards him, stepping over pieces of glass and crushed them beneath the soles of her leather boots.</p><p>
  <i>Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.</i>
</p><p>Booker gulped, swallowing nervously, as she now crowded him.</p><p>“Or, were you hoping we could be more than friends?” Quynh asked, teasing him a little.</p><p>Booker nodded, dumbly, as he felt his blood rush downward to fill his groin. He stared, enthralled, as she began to untie the belt that kept her bright-coloured coat wrapped tight around her body. He felt a rush of arousal course through his body as he began to imagine what she was wearing beneath it. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer.</p><p>Booker let himself take her, picking her up by her waist, and moving them both over to the open surface of the kitchen table.</p><p>Booker pressed his mouth to hers again and Quynh embraced him back and they kissed each other forcefully.</p><p>She pulled at his hair and he ran his hands down her coat.</p><p>He lifted the hem of her green-coloured dress, feeling for the intimate folds of her anatomy, and she groped the growing bulge through his denims, groping at his engorged member.</p><p>“Fuck, Booker,” she whined, as she released his throbbing <i>pénis</i> from his pants.</p><p>He groaned, speechlessly, desperate for more of her touch.</p><p>She granted it to him, stroking and manipulating his <i>bitte</i> to stiffen and lengthen in her grasp, and he reciprocated, circling and fingering her labia and her clitoral hood.</p><p>“You’re so wet,” he gasped, as her secretions coated his hand and made him slip against her folds.</p><p>“I know,” she said, panting, as he fingered her erogenous parts and she craved more from him. “I can’t seem to keep myself dry. Ever since I got out of the water, it’s been an itch that I just can’t seem to scratch.”</p><p>She lowered her voice, then, whispering in his ear. “I was hoping you could scratch it for me. <i>Baise-moi, Sébastien, je t’en prie.</i>”</p><p>He gave in, pushing her back against the surface of the kitchen table, to line up the tip of his <i>bitte</i> with her <i>vagin</i> with one hand and hold her labial folds apart with the fingers of his other hand.</p><p>He groaned as she sank herself onto his <i>bitte</i> and she huffed, impatiently, tugging at the belt-loops of his denims with both hands to pull his pelvis towards her own.</p><p>She wrapped her legs around his hips, directing him to pleasure her, and he grasped at the edges of the table for leverage to thrust into her wet <i>chatte</i>.</p><p>He thrusted and she clutched at him and he rocked against her and she gushed all over him.</p><p>She howled and he grunted and she moaned and he cried out.</p><p>He lost control and she gave it up and he came spending himself in her and she quivered around him.</p><p>She let him go, reluctantly, and he pulled out, staggering a little from the force of the orgasm she had pulled from him.</p><p> </p><p>Booker turned away, reaching for a clean glass that he filled from the tap, guided by the thought that he needed to sober up if he wanted to figure out why Quynh had come to find him.</p><p>She sat back on his kitchen table, her chest heaving, as he knocked back glass after glass of water.</p><p>He drank his fill, watering down the alcohol he’d consumed earlier, before asking her the first of many questions on his mind.</p><p>“Why are you here, Quynh?” he asked, pronouncing her name almost like the word “queen”—the way he remembered Nicky always pronounced it.</p><p>“I came to see you,” she answered, without paying him any attention, as she focused on herself.</p><p>He watched her reach down between her legs to feel his release that leaked from her <i>chatte</i>.</p><p>“What do you want from me?” he asked, again, as he watched her finger herself.</p><p>“Satisfaction,” she said, more than a little frustrated.</p><p>Booker let his anxiety get the better of him, imagining a hundred different plots, and let all his questions slip free. “Are you here to kill me? Are you here for revenge, to punish me for our failure to rescue you? Or, are you going to torture me until I give up and tell you where to find the others?”</p><p>“I don’t want to hurt you, Booker,” she said, waving off his suspicions. “I want you and I’m willing to bet that you want me, too.”</p><p>He watched, dumbstruck, as she spread her thighs wider and pulled up the hem of her silk dress, to show him her dripping <i>chatte</i>.</p><p>“I want you,” she gasped, as she masturbated in front of him. “I desperately need to get off. I have about five hundred years of pent-up frustration I need to work off and you seem willing enough.”</p><p>He wasn’t so sure—his middle-aged body was still recovering from the powerful shock of his own orgasm and would remain unresponsive to any further stimulation for the duration of his refractory period.</p><p>“You didn’t have any other plans tonight, did you?” she teased him even as she teased herself with her fingers.</p><p>He swallowed and forced himself to look away, to try and grant her a little privacy even though only moments before he’d been willing enough to have her over the kitchen table.</p><p>“Aren’t you lonely?” she asked him, as she stimulated her clit, dripping her secretions on the table where he usually took his meals.</p><p>Booker felt his resolve crumble. “Yes,” he admitted, weakly.</p><p>“I need this, Booker,” she huffed, twisting as she chased her own pleasure. “It’s my turn and I want you to drive me over the edge.”</p><p>“<i>D’accord.</i>”</p><p>Booker fell to his knees before her and leaned forward and rubbed his unshaved beard against her spread thighs. She gasped and she spread her labia for him with two fingers and guided his head to mouth at her <i>chatte</i>. He shoved his face against her and nuzzled her sex and smelled her secretions.</p><p>“Don’t waste my time, Booker,” she encouraged him.</p><p>He gave a first tentative swipe of his tongue and enjoyed how her body shivered as he licked her. He lapped at her wetness and swirled his tongue and teased her clitoral hood and sucked on her clit.</p><p>“You have—” she gasped, as she felt two of his fingers enter her even as he continued to suck and lick at her sensitive anatomy, “no idea how fucking difficult it is to get off when you’re drowning every two minutes.”</p><p>She moaned as he swiped his tongue over her vulva and he lapped at her clit as she gushed.</p><p>“This is nice—but I’m going to need more from you,” she insisted, impatiently, already shrugging out of her coat. “Fuck me, Booker.”</p><p>“Not here,” he gasped, feeling his <i>bitte</i> stir and respond to her palpable desire, “not again. <i>Dans la chambre</i>.”</p><p>“Please! Yes!”</p><p>He lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder and she gave a little squeal as he carried her through the flat. </p><p> </p><p>They never made it all the way to the bed. </p><p>Booker had struggled to carry Quynh through the flat, as she shifted against him and swung her legs so she could sit on his shoulders and press his face to her dripping sex. He had crashed, blindly, into one of the flat’s panelled walls—knocking down whatever had been hanging there and littering the floor with glass shards—as he nuzzled and sucked at her <i>chatte</i>. He pinned her against the wall and ate her out and she pulled at his hair and scratched at his back and screamed out with pleasure.</p><p>He fumbled and she slipped down the wall until her arse came to rest in his hands. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he rubbed his stiff <i>bitte</i> against her folds and she begged for more and he nearly lost it altogether.</p><p>He clutched her body against his again and he turned them away from the wall and he carried her safely over the shards of broken glass down the hall and he reached with one hand for the bedroom door.</p><p>She took him in her hand and gripped him hard and fought to command his attention while he struggled to open the double doors wide enough to carry her into the bedroom. He grunted out of frustration as he fumbled with the latch that would release the second door. He couldn’t free himself from her demanding grip long enough to work the mechanism. He couldn’t free himself from her desperate grip on him for long enough to unlock it. </p><p>She then aligned his <i>bitte</i> with her entrance and sank down on him and he lost his balance and they fell through the narrow opening of partially opened doorway.</p><p>Booker was trapped beneath Quynh’s body, lying across the threshold, caught between the private space of the bedroom and the exposed passage of the hallway. </p><p>She took advantage of her superior position to pin him back against the floor and rock her pelvis against his own and ride him to completion.</p><p>She rode him like a sex toy—without any care or attention for his needs—as she used his stiff <i>bitte</i> to stimulate her the walls of her <i>vagin</i> and her cervix and manipulated her clit with her own fingers.</p><p>“Let me up,” he begged her. “I can’t—”</p><p>“Don’t move,” she said, pressing a clammy hand to his lips, cutting off his protests. “I want to ride you like this. You feel so perfect to under me.”</p><p>He groaned as she slammed against him—shuddering and clenching around him—gushing as she climaxed at last and milked another orgasm from him.</p><p>She raised herself off him, swearing indelicately, and allowed herself to collapse against his heaving chest.</p><p>They lay against each other, on the bedroom floor, as they struggled to catch their breath.</p><p>“Nice bed,” Quynh said, laughing, as she moved off him.</p><p>He gave her an incredulous glance and saw that she had untied the knot that held her green silk dress wrapped around her lithe frame. He swallowed as she revealed more of herself—her unblemished skin, her perky breasts, her dark nipples. He let his head fall back against the <i>parquet</i> flooring as she cradled her own chest and gasped as she grazed her nipples with her thumbs and pinched them into nubs.</p><p>“You lied to me. You are trying to kill me,” Booker grunted out, shaking his head in disbelief at her insatiable desire when he felt his own body might give out—in spite of the condition that usually made him feel indestructible. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this overwhelmed while trying to please an intimate partner.</p><p> </p><p>Booker closed his eyes, looking away from Quynh for a moment, feeling the mess that had leaked onto his stomach and thinking he really needed to clean himself up.</p><p>“I’m for a shower,” he announced to his new intimate friend.</p><p>She paused, her eyes widening. “Wait! Can we—do you think we can have sex in your shower?”</p><p>He thought of refusing, for a second, but then his fear of what she might get up to if he left her alone in his bedroom overcame his reticence.</p><p>“I think so,” he said, cautiously, as he considered the small size of the shower booth that had been installed in his centrally-located Parisian flat.</p><p>“Help me with my boots,” she ordered him. “And you should take all your clothes off, too.”</p><p>Booker struggled a little to pull off her leather boots as she crushed his fingers trying to toe them off herself.</p><p>“You—” he tried to protest.</p><p>“Don’t waste time! Just take it all off and let’s go shower!”</p><p>He ripped off his dress shirt and shrugged out of his trousers and pants—nearly ripping them off in his haste—to catch up with the naked woman wandering through his flat, looking for his bathroom.</p><p>He found her standing in the flat’s small shower—that looked more like a phone booth that a bathroom fixture—and fiddling with the knobs.</p><p>He joined her in the tight space that was never intended for two people and she shrieked when he squeezed her body against his to pull the glass door closed.</p><p>She grabbed the shower head and he opened the valve and she screamed when the water hit her and he adjusted the flow.</p><p>He directed the flow of water over them and she shuddered against him and he fingered her sex and she parted her legs for him.</p><p>He pressed her against the glass wall of the shower and she yelped and he tried to grind himself against her and she slipped beneath him.</p><p>She shoved him back and he banged his head against the glass and he worried that the glass panels of the shower might shatter as they struggled.</p><p>He pulled her firmly against his body and she gave in and he grabbed a bar of soap to rub against her.</p><p>He lathered her body and she sighed against him and he thumbed her clit and she breathed in puffs of hot air that added to the steam of their shower.</p><p>She begged for more and he massaged her <i>vagin</i> and he pinched her clit and she quivered against him.</p><p>She grabbed his hand and she directed him to drag his fingers against her vaginal walls and circle and flick her clit and she moaned when he did.</p><p>He took the shower head from her trembling hands and she clutched at him frantically as though she might drown and he gently washed the soap from her sex.</p><p>She pressed the shower head against her sex and he directed the flowing water against her clitoris and she screamed and he kept her from falling over as the stimulation pushed her over the edge.</p><p>He shut off the water and she slumped against him and he held her to his chest and she began to cry—relieved—as she breathed in heaving gasps.</p><p> </p><p>Booker watched Quynh carefully as she towel-dried her wet hair and tied it in a bun at her nape, and slipped into a light-coloured linen jumpsuit. He felt he had to ask her the question that was still burning at him.</p><p>“Why are you here, Quynh? Why come find me?”</p><p>“I thought that would have been pretty obvious to you, by now,” she replied, with a less-than-polite glance at his towelled mid-section.</p><p>Booker frowned, undeterred by her attempt at deflection. “If you wanted to get off, you could have gone to anyone else for help.”</p><p>“Why didn’t I go see them, you mean?” Quynh asked, unsettlingly direct. “What do you think it’s gonna be like?”</p><p>Booker didn’t answer straight away. </p><p>He had no idea of what a reunion between his family and their lost friend would be like. His mind was still filled with the image of their faces as he had last seen them—looking down at him, hardened in disapproval, betraying nothing of their pain.</p><p>He had desperately hoped they would reach out to him—come find him—and forgive him. He couldn’t imagine seeking them out before their planned meeting on the banks of the Thames river when his one hundred years of solitude had lapsed.</p><p>Quynh’s voice interrupted Booker’s brooding thoughts.</p><p>“I don’t want to see them,” she admitted, aloud.</p><p>“<i>Pardon?</i>”</p><p>“I spent hundreds and thousands of years with them already,” she said, focusing on her hands as she tied a belt over her outfit. “I really don’t care to spend any more of what life I have left to live fighting thousands of battles by their side. I spent so much time alone, when I was trapped in—” she broke off, squeezing her hands into fists. “I don’t want to be that person who has to suffer for someone else’s benefit any longer. I don’t want that life anymore.”</p><p>“What do you want for yourself, Quynh?” he asked, finally having identified the right question to ask her.</p><p>He had been so caught up in his own situation, that he hadn’t for a second wondered what she wanted beyond how it might affect him. He knew, after several rounds of sex spent trying to satisfy her physical desires, she could speak for herself—if he could be bothered to look beyond himself and listen to her.</p><p>She smiled at him, her expression brightened by hopefulness. “I want to spend my life having fun. End of story.”</p><p>He could accept that answer. “What do you want from me?” he asked her, again.</p><p>“I want you to get over yourself,” she said, taking no prisoners. “I could see how you had given up on yourself—you were drowning in your own feelings—and the last thing I needed was to have you popping up in my dreams, moping about, for the next five hundred years.”</p><p>Booker had to admit that he could feel her visit had shaken something loose in him. He thought, maybe, her showing up made him remember what it was like to feel <i>content</i>.</p><p>“I think we could have a lot of fun together, just you and me.”</p>
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